


Waking Up

by AryaWitchbane16



Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AryaWitchbane16/pseuds/AryaWitchbane16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isobel Foretti has a dark past. She has been on the run from her family since she was 18. Now 24, Izzy's life is crashing down around her..again. With a nosy genius and an army doctor for flatmates, strange new powers developing,  and her old life dragging her in again, Izzy is not a happy camper. She must chose between her old life and her new one...but at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing!! Sherlock belongs to BBC, and while the Foretti clan and their powers belong to me, they are heavily inspired by the witches from the CW'S shows (The Original's and the Vampire Diaries.) Please be kind, and I would appreciate feedback.  
> I imagine Izzy to look like the amazingly talented Lindsey Morgan, while Adriana is Nina Dobrev, Helena Kennedy is Jessica Chastain, and Bianca Foretti is Minka Kelly.

The dream started as it usually did, with a memory. In the memory, the first sun of spring shone brightly on the old house and the forest that surrounded it. My bare feet sunk into damp, dark earth. I stood still, closing my eyes and breathing in the fresh, piney air, as well as the smell of fresh earth. Behind me, there was the screech of the ancient screen door, and I turned, although I already knew who I would see. My grandmother stood on the porch, with her back ramrod straight,her thick dark hair pulled up in a flawless chignon. She was dressed in a simple white sundress, and she didn't look a day over 25, even though she was quickly approaching her 148th birthday. She strode stiffly to the edge of the porch, before turning and looking behind her.  
"Isobel. Come here." Her voice cracked like a whip, shattering the peaceful atmosphere. The door swung open, and out strode twelve year old me. I was wearing a blue skirt and an oversized grey cardigan, with a pair of beat up old Chuck Taylor's covering my feet. My dark hair was pulled up in a messy attempt at Gran's flawless chignon, and my almost black eyes were wide with apprehension.  
"Yes, Gran?" Behind me, the door swung open, and my throat clogged painfully at the sight of my ten year old sister, Adriana, and my mother, balancing a two year old Sofia on her hip.  
"You are going to bless a patch of garden." Gran said, ignoring my widening eyes and Adriana's gasp of shock. My mother stepped forward, shifting a babbling Sofia on her hip as she did so.  
"Bianca," she called, her voice soft," I think Izzy is still a bit young. Let's wait until next year." Gran frowned.  
"Hush, Helena. I know what I'm doing." She turned to me, two worn leather pouches appearing in her hand. She placed one scarred hand on my small shoulder, looking intently at me with intense dark eyes.  
"You remember the words?" I nodded vigorously, an eager smile on my face. I stretched out my hand for the pouch, but Gran held it firm.  
"If you only remember one thing from my lessons, remember this. Magic comes with a price. It is never free. The more powerful the spell, the higher the cost. Know you limits, Isobel." She handed me the first pouch, and in a rare show of affection, brushed her lips over my forehead. As I stepped toward the garden, Gran made a sharp noise of warning. I froze, and then removed the pins and ties from my hair, while slipping the shoes from my small feet. I then pulled the wool cardigan over my head, leaving me in a thin white tank top. I gripped the pouch tightly, my small hands creasing the soft leather . Breathing deeply, I stepped over the stone fence and into the corner of the garden. I crouched in the dirt and opened the pouch, spilling a handful of assorted seeds into my fist. I carefully began to plant them, while chanting in a mixture of ancient Greek, Latin, and Gaelic. I could feel the change instantly. A buzzing warmth flowed through me, starting in my chest and flowing to the tips of my fingers and toes. The breeze became stronger, blowing my dark hair gently around my face. My senses sharpened. I finished the planting, and suddenly, the second pouch was in my hand. I opened it, the buzzing sensation becoming stronger, the warmth becoming almost too hot. A silver needle slid out of the pouch. I picked it up, and plunged it into my left index finger. There was a sudden rush, and as my blood dripped onto the earth, I had the feeling of floating. The feeling faded quickly, and I was left with a pounding headache, a throbbing finger, and a dry mouth. My legs shook and ached as if I had run a marathon, and my stomach growled loudly. I flopped onto the damp earth and giggled, exhilarated and exhausted.  
"You did well." Gran's voice seemed too loud, and as my eyes opened, the sun pierced my eyes with spears, sending jolts of throbbing pain to my already aching head. As I turned away from the too-bright sky, my heart gave a leap of delight. Where there had been nothing but rich, dark earth, there was now several small, green sprouts. I looked up at her, opening my mouth to speak, when suddenly, a loud shrieking shattered the image. My eyes flew open, and I sat up, slamming my hand on the top of the alarm, silencing it. I gazed bleary eyed around the shitty little bed-sit. It was possibly the most depressing place I'd ever had the misfortune of staying in, but considering it was in the heart of London, and I was only making minimum wage, it wasn't terrible. I rolled off the lumpy mattress and padded into the tiny bathroom. The water ran brown for a few seconds, and the "hot" water ran out after three minutes. I shivered my way into a blue Henley, a gray sweatshirt, and some jeans, before looking into the dirty mirror, and wincing.  
I could probably, at some point, be considered beautiful, even though my fashion sense was more hipster-grunge instead of a more classical option. My dark hair was shaved on the left side, and most of it near my face was dyed purple, but the rest was thick and long, I had a nice mouth and high cheekbones. I had enormous dark eyes with long, thick eyelashes. Mom used to call them doe eyes, and they were definitely my best feature. Despite that, I still looked like crap. My normally copper skin was a sickly grayish color so that the tattoos I had all over my body stuck out in stark contrast, I had shadows under my eyes so dark that they looked like bruises, and to top it all off, I was about twenty pounds underweight, so I looked like a skeleton. Magic takes a large toll on the body, and because I am only making minimum wage, almost all of my money was going to buying various magical supplies. Top all that off with a severe case of insomnia, and voila! Instant ugly! 

Sighing heavily, I pulled on my coat, grabbed my bag, yanked a soft red beanie over my head,and after lining my eyes heavily with black liner and putting a simple silver ring in my left nostril, I headed to my current place of employment, St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I have a degree in mechanical engineering, but I need to keep a low profile,and besides, a job is a job. I am a porter, which basically means that I get to clean up other people's messes, do laundry, bring people towels, change their sheets. It was a pretty unpleasant job, but I got to work near the morgue, so if I needed any, um, human parts for a spell or a potion, I had easy access. I took a short-cut through a park, turning up the collar of my coat as I did so.  
"Izzy!" I turned sharply at the sound of my name. Mike Stamford, a professor at Bart's and my sorta-kinda friend was hurrying after me, followed by a man in his early forties with graying hair, a cane, and a rather horrible limp.  
"Hey, Mike." Mike grinned at me, before gesturing to his companion.  
"Izzy, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is Isabella Collins." I smiled and shook Watson's hand. Mike turned back to me.  
"Are you still looking to get out of that bedsit?" I nodded cautiously.  
"Well, Dr.Watson is looking for a flatshare, and I've got a guy for the two of you!" Mike said delightedly. Hm. It would be nice to get out of that crappy bedsit, but I didn't know either of my possible roommates, I have no idea how I was going to afford it, or how I was going to hide my abilities. Still, it was worth checking out.  
"I need to be fast. My shift starts in 30 minutes. " Mike beamed.  
5 minutes later, I was walking into one of the labs at Bart's. Sitting at a countertop, looking into a microscope, was a tall man with curly, dark hair. I'd seen him before in the morgue. He'd always struck me as kind of strange, but I'm a witch, so I can't really talk. Dr. Watson looked around, impressed.  
"A bit different from my day." He remarked.  
"Can I use your phone? Mine isn't working. " His voice was a deep, rich baritone, with an aristocratic accent and a slightly arrogant tone to it. Mike smiled apologetically.  
"Mine's in my coat. Sorry, Sherlock." I scanned the room, and I raised a brow as my dark eyes settled on the phone set into the wall.  
"What's wrong with the land line?" I inwardly cringed. My American accent sounded so.....uneducated compared to the elegant accent that everyone else had.  
"I prefer to text." Sherlock said with a quick glance in my direction. My stomach tightened with anxiety. The only time I had heard such casual dismissal in someone's voice was in the voice of Bran Cornick, the Marrok of the North American Packs. Could this man be a werewolf? I allowed my magic, a vibrating, living thing that curled in my bones, to stretch out just the smallest bit. To my relief, everyone in the room was human, even Sherlock. Dr. Watson stepped forward, pulling a sleek phone from his pocket.  
"Here. Use mine." Sherlock took the phone, typed something quickly, and handed it back to John. He then looked at both of us intently, his blue-green eyes surveying us thoroughly. I resisted the urge to fidget under Sherlock's intense gaze. I may only have lived with the werewolves for a few months, but Charles had taught me well. In a pack, fidgeting and appearing uncomfortable makes you appear weak, and the weak can easily become prey. It probably wouldn't make a difference to a human, but I would be damned if I let a few looks from a human turn me into a shaking wreck. He turned his gaze to John.  
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" His voice was so casual, and the topic so unexpected, that I almost missed the question. John froze, looking taken aback.  
"Sorry?"  
"Afghanistan or Iraq, which was it?" John blinked quickly.  
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you kno-" the door to the lab swung open and Sherlock exclaimed.  
"Ah, Molly, you brought my coffee, thank you." A small woman with a long ponytail and a lab coat came in, a cup in her hands and an adoring, slightly shy smile on her lips.  
"What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock inquired. The woman, Molly, shifted uncomfortably.  
"It wasn't working out for me." I didn't need a werewolfs nose to tell that she was lying. It was kind of sad really, considering her obvious crush on Sherlock.  
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." Sherlock said, turning his back on her and walking away in an obvious dismissal. She scurried out as fast as she could, but not before she could hide the hurt that flashed in her big brown eyes. I hid a wince of sympathy. Rejection hurt like a bitch, as I knew from personal experience, and it's even worse when the person who rejected you is a total dick. As the door closed behind her, Sherlock spoke again.  
"How do you feel about the violin?"  
"The violin? Sorry, you've lost me." I admitted.  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Does that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He finished the rapid dialog with a smile that felt oddly forced. John gave Mike an accusing look.  
"You told him about me?" Mike shook his head.  
"Not a word."  
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" The very British word felt strange on my tongue.  
"I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and now here he is, just after lunch it two friends, one clearly just home from Afghanistan from military service, the other an American coworker who he is worried about, given the way he keeps glancing at you and your obvious malnourishment. Not a difficult leap." he spoke, he pulled on a long, dark blue trench coat and knotted a blue scarf around his neck. I was about to open my mouth to protest violently, but John spoke first.  
"How did you know about Afghanistan? " Sherlock continued to talk, ignoring the question.  
"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, the three of us should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He gathered his things from around the lab before stopping in front of us.  
"Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the morgue." Riding crop? Really?  
"Is that it?" John sounded almost like he was goading Sherlock. I'd seen that trick before. Sherlock was having none of it.  
"Is that what?" He managed to sound both impatient and bored.  
"We've only just met and we're already going to look at a flat." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Problem?" The arrogance in his tone made me bristle. John gave Mike an incredulous smile. I decided to make my opinion known.  
"Um, we just met, I know NOTHING about the two of you, I don't know where we are meeting, and I don't even know your full name." Sherlock looked at me with cold, calculating eyes.  
"I know that you are most likely lying about your identity, you aren't speaking with your family, and and that you have Mediterranean, Native American, and possibly British ancestry. You are an expirenced pick - pocket and runaway, a lesbian, and you know how to defend yourself.," then he snapped his attention to John, leaving me feeling astonished, and vulnerable. He was talking to John about alcoholic brothers and psychosomatic limps, while I curled in on myself in a stupid, instinctive attempt to keep Sherlock from learning any more about me. Sherlock opened the door and I snapped out of my daze. Sticking his head back through the door, he looked at us , almost mischieviously.  
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." And with that, he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the story Arcana. I can't remember the authors name, but it was fantastic.


End file.
